Wednesday, June 29, 2011

It’s 9.04. It’s raining. Wednesday night. I am on my bed, reclined on three pillows; my neck will try to endure the strain it will surely get from this awkward position. Even with earphones buried in my ears—‘Lonely Souls’ by UNKLE, blaring—I can hear the heavy rain pouring outside. I don’t know to describe my position now, but it appears like I’m about to give birth. You get the picture? Except that my thighs aren’t open; they meet at the knees My feet are apart. I rest my laptop on my legs, or whatever it is they call it in Anatomy.

It’s hard to type in this position. Even harder to navigate through the screen with the touch pad; I’m used to using an actual mouse connected via USB. It’s still too early to sleep, and I’m not sleepy yet, anyway. But I’m feeling a bit off tonight. I don’t even know if ‘off’ describes it. Remember the strain on my neck that I told you? It’s starting now. And my back is starting to hurt, too. I’m sure I can’t bear this for too long.

Lonely Souls is on repeat simply because I’m really in the mood to watch ‘The Beach’—for the nth time. But I don’t think I’ll be able to watch it till the end, and there’s really no point in that. I’ve been meaning to finish reading the book the movie was adapted from, but it’s hard to when I’m reading it on my laptop. My eyes get strained easily; and I’m not such a big fan of PDF, really. Not that I’m a big fan of books, either.

Leonardo DiCaprio’s character in the movie, Richard, is one of those characters you love and hate at the same time. He’s cocky, and that, most of the time, is a good thing. But he crosses the line between being cocky and being an asshole. And I guess I like Richard’s character because I am naturally drawn to assholes. And, how can you not like Richard’s smile? How can you not like his penchant for adventure—for something dangerous? How can you not like his naivety and sharp perspective about life? He’s polite but at the same time arrogant.

Watching the movie takes me to an alternate reality—like I’m Richard’s imaginary friend that he doesn’t really talk to. Watching the movie gives me a certain emotion that up until now I can’t seem to describe. Watching the movie gets me high—like I’m on drugs.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

I stare down at the cup of cappuccino on the table. I stare at the opposite table occupied by a guy whose hair flopped over his head carelessly; his white crumpled shirt matching his marine cut-offs, his legs crossed. I wonder if he bathed in green tea cologne-infused water because it seems the other scents clinging in the air were slowly being overpowered by his cologne. Or it could be an expensive perfume—that would explain it. He tinkers his phone with both hands, and later places it on the table; he grabs a magazine on the stand beside him. Cosmopolitan. I barely make out the cover, but I’m certain it was a brunette celebrity. He flips through the pages, seemingly uninterested. Before he flips through half of the magazine, he puts it back on the stand. He picks up his phone and starts to swipe his finger on the screen.

I take a notebook from my bag, and a pen. I open the notebook to an empty page, stare at it for a while, and then scribble down the date on the upper left part. My cappuccino is still hot, I can feel the heat radiate from the cup. I glance to my left and see an array of pastries inside a glass cabinet. Blueberry cheesecake, tuna croissant, chocolate torte, black forest cake. I glance to my right and see the huge panel doors that reveal the empty street. Eight twenty-five in the morning, I check my phone. I start to draw on the notebook. Crooked lines, an attempt at a straight line, a swirl. PATIENCE, I scrawl at the bottom of the page. I look up.

His order arrives. A tall frappe with whipped cream on top, a slice of chocolate cake. Or whatever it is. I’m certain it’s chocolate. He smiles at the barista, swipes his finger on his phone. He smiles. Somehow his smile didn’t complement his get-up. Or his get-up didn’t complement his smile. He must notice me looking at him. He looks up and stares for a second or two, then smiles. I smile back, coyly. He looks down, takes a sip of his drink.

I take a sip of my drink, close my notebook and put it back in my bag. I cast another look at him; he’s looking outside with a vacant expression. His phone beeps, he picks it up. I hang the bag on my shoulder and walk to the counter, bringing my hot cappuccino. I ask for an ashtray. The barista bends down, disappearing behind the cash register, and hands me a black ashtray with Marlboro printed on the side. I thank the barista and walk outside.

The morning air is light. A young woman enters the coffee shop. I sit on a chair, facing the street. I take a pack of light cigarettes from my bag, and a lighter. I place them on the table, and take another sip of my drink. I take a stick out and light it. The smoke cools my mouth. I take it up my nose, and exhale. I puff the rest of the smoke through pursed lips. I take another hit of the cigarette. I blow the smoke through pursed lips. I put the cigarette on the ashtray, take a sip of the cappuccino, and stare out into the sky.

I catch a figure on the corner of my eye. I glance at it. My eyes are met with the same smile that greeted me earlier. The green tea scent registers into my consciousness; it mixes with the smell of cigarette. He looks at me and maintains his smile. I smile back. He asks if he could borrow the lighter. I hand it to him. He takes out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lights a stick. He hands the lighter back and says thank you. I just smile. The smell of his cologne and his cigarette—our cigarettes—render my senses incapable of words. He asks if I am waiting for company. I reply no. He asks if he can join me. I reply yes. He sets down his drink beside mine. I take a hit of my cigarette; he does the same. He looks at me. I feel a little uneasy.

His skin is flawless, fair. His nose, bridged perfectly, matching his prominent jaws and almond eyes. I get more uneasy. There is silence between us, except for the sound of blowing smoke through our lips. He asks my name, and stretches out his hand as he says his name. I shake his hand. There is silence. I stare back into the street. He does the same. I look at him as he’s looking at me. I search for words. He asks how long I’ve been smoking. I say since college. He stifles a giggle and says the same thing. Second-year college, he adds. Fourth-year college, I add.

We continued the conversation. Random. A few personal queries. We ask for water. We laugh. We talk like we know each other. We talk about beaches, malls, coffee, cigarettes, mobile phones, mobile phone apps, college, books, music, movies, food, weather. I tell him I like the smell of his cologne. He says thank you. We continue talking. He asks if I’m free for lunch. I say no. He asks for my number. I ask back for his. We leave the coffee shop. We walk together to the mall. We tell each other our respective destination. We part ways.

I walk to the loading area. My phone beeps as I wait for a ride. ‘Dinner?’ his message reads. ‘Then coffee after?’ I reply. I hail for the approaching tricycle. My phone beeps.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

See how I flirt with these fags? See how I let one grab my leg and squeeze it? See how I linger at their table and smile? Notice that I brushed my arm on one’s shoulder as I put the glasses down? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like the touch of my skin. You’d like it if I lingered at your table and flirted with you.

See, I don’t do to you those things that I do to all these fags because I know you’re not like them. You’re different. I can tell from the way you place your order, the way you hold that glass, the way you talk.

You look like you could wrap me around your finger, and I don’t like that. I do the wrapping. Like you can manipulate me with words. You don’t look the type who’d wait for me till I get off from work just so you could run your hands on me. You don’t look like you’d want to spare me some hundreds, because you can get pleasure from someone else without paying. But see, money is an issue here. It makes the world go round, they say. These fags pay me by the hour, by each trickle of sweat. They are only after m body, my tool. And you don’t look their type.

You must think I’m an asshole for not entertaining you like I used to. But after we spoke, I realized you might really like me if I continued being polite to you, if I continued striking a conversation, or smiled at you when your friends head for the comfort room.

So anyway, thank you for coming. Do come again. Maybe when the bar isn’t crowded, and my hands are free, we can talk. Or maybe we can just smile at each other.

Waiter,

You’re a jerk. And in my standards, a jerk can never compare to an asshole. I am more of an asshole-magnet. I don’t like jerks. Sure they’re good to look at, sometimes. But to really like them? Nah.

I hate it that you’re hot. I hate it that your ass looks really good, and your briefs fit it perfectly that I could see the seams under that ugly yellow shorts. I hate it that you had to pick something up, and I saw just how you’d be like if you bend.

Let’s get one thing straight, I find you attractive. But other than that, I don’t really find you of any importance to even a minute of my time. Bet you expected I’d actually wait till you’re off from work and offer you a sum of money for a one-night stand, didn’t you? You see, I don’t do that. Why pay when I get indecent proposals from other guys? Pay you? I wouldn’t even if I could, because I know better.

So let’s put things in order, shall we? I am a paying customer, and you just happen to be working at my barkada’s unofficial hang-out place; don’t flatter yourself into thinking I frequent the place just to catch a glimpse of you. What are you, like, high school? Next time, don’t look at me like you owe me some sort of courtesy. Just take the order, bring it to the table, and stop throwing glances. See glances, they can be deceiving. And you wouldn’t want to lead me on, as much as my glances led you into thinking I actually like you. Jerk.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Because the revered Jose Cuervo lives up to its name—and therefore needs an equally infamous set of truths, which is based on ‘there is truth in alcohol’ crap—friends and I shared some truths that one would not dare share in utter sobriety. Deep dark secrets. See the thing with deep dark secrets is just when you thought your secret is dark enough, someone else puts it to shame.

Then we exchanged questions. And when I was asked if I have a plan of having a family, I immediately replied no. I’d like to have a child of my own. But a family? That’s just not me. And not just because of my preference. I think that even if I were straight, I still wouldn’t plan on having a family. And don’t go giving me that who-will-take-care-of-you-when-you-start-to-shit-on-your-PJs crap. I’d elaborate more on why I don’t plan on having a family, but I don’t have the luxury of focus.

And yes, I came unscathed from drinking Cuervo. Unscathed. But before shot number 14, I puked on the rocks because I got dizzy from rolling like crazy on the shore. I puked and laughed about it. As we were about to leave the beach, I started picking up our trash and a friend asked if I was going to pick up every trash on the shore. I said no, only the ones I can. “I’m a pseudo-environmentalist,” I added.

In the evening, we went for a videoke session. We sang Oasis, Coldplay, The Script, and some other artists from the 90’s. It was a sort of bow to the 90’s, apparently. There were only four of us, but I know people outside the videoke room would have thought we were packed in there.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Burned all my poemsTurned to tequila and dropped deadOn my bed with my socks onTell me, where did my muse go?Everything’s worthlessLike a frame with no pictureI am bland; I’m unhappyI feel safe in my cornerThen you come aroundWe talk over dinnerYou like my spaghettiBut clearly you don’t know me You’re a handsome companionEducated and funnyI like being around youYou’re unaware you unnerve meWhen I undo your zipperEverything trembles
You got my attentionSo I turn to the table and the glassSitting with you with my gloves onWe talk on the tableWith pens and paperYou start to scribbleI pour another shotWith crazy thoughts in my handYou insist to define meLike the frame with no pictureWorthless indeedClearly you don’t know meYou’re a handsome companionCathartic and freeI dream of collisionI feel safe in my cornerThen you bring a bottleAnd start to unbutton my jeans

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

There was a terrible traffic jam this morning. Drivers were looking out their car windows, like giraffes stretching its already-ridiculously long neck. Tricycles were parked along the street; drivers talking to each other in animated manner. From what I gathered—based on how the hands of some drivers demonstrated collision, and the look on people’s faces—there had been an accident. And as the tricycle I was in moved like a snail towards the area where small crowds of people gathered, a police officer appeared into view.

An old woman had been hit by a speeding car—a tiny, Mr. Bean’s car-like vehicle whose driver was a foreigner—which was now parked a few feet from the spot of the accident.

Blood. There was a puddle of blood on the road. Fresh blood. I had no intention of looking at it because I’m quite queasy, but I looked anyway. And I regretted it. It does look different when it’s real; not like in the movies. I made a sound and my stomach started to turn. I felt my breakfast starting to make its way up my throat. I distracted myself. I immediately made up scenes on my mind—like it wasn’t real, that it was just a movie shoot or something.

Accidents happen. That’s why it’s called an accident; no one knows it’s going to happen. Accidents happen, and those who aren’t affected—the mere spectators—will carry on with their lives. Some will feel a sense of gratitude that it wasn’t them that met the misfortune or that it wasn’t someone they knew; some will feel a sense of pity, but only for a moment; some will be apathetic—not that they can be blamed for feeling so.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

I had marked June 11th on my mobile planner to be the last of the beer-drinking days. If I wanted to trim down my beer-belly, which I have to admit has gotten quite sore to look at, I should at least switch libation since I couldn’t for the life of me pass up eating rice.

The so-called gathering was supposedly in honour of a friend’s heartbreak. Apparently, nine years can be so easy to throw away. And since I try to be a good friend at times, and I haven’t really been out for a month while my dad was home for vacation, I just had to be there.

We got our first round of drinks at La Vista rooftop, where bands performed on Friday and Saturday nights. But the thing about that place is that you and your friends can hardly hear each other’s voice. You have to have mastered sign language if you were to converse—and what’s the point in that, really? So for us not to suffer from damaged vocal chords, we minimized talking (which at that place meant shouting) and instead attended to our mobile phones. After a bucket of light beer, we transferred to the lower level of the La Vista building which was definitely a better location for some powwow.

Thankfully, we ordered a blended mix of vodka, lime juice, and triple sec—Kamikaze. And I fell in love, yet again, at first taste. It tasted so much better than their proclaimed best-seller Slusher drink. It wasn’t until the second pitcher of Kamikaze when we really started to have fun.

Puff, chug, talk, listen, laugh, smile seemed to be the routine for the evening. These are thoughts that polluted my mind while I puffed, chugged, talked, listened, and smiled:

I can only take so much bullshit from a friend. And I am definitely done this time.

Amusingly, as I was trying to strangle a certain friend in my mind for the endless excuses she’s been throwing all the years and the great deal of insensitivity she’s exhibited, I heard the band play a Tagalog song that had the lyrics, “Kung ayaw, maraming dahilan. Kung gusto, maraming paraan,” or something of that effect. My friend Gio wanted to relay why Flake-out Queen friend couldn’t make it, but I immediately dismissed the conversation with a half-baked smile and a puff of smoke. Gio just smiled knowingly since he’s heard my issues about Flake-out Queen before.

We can’t help it. Boys—regardless of sexual orientation—will, at times, salivate over skin.

Waitresses were everywhere, getting and serving orders. I wondered what happened to the waiters. Where is Glenn the Ass-waiter-hole? My guy friends were all rolling their eyes, checking out skin. Yup, skin is skin.

If my girl friends weren’t so distracted with their mobile phones and stories of heartache and moving on, they would have noticed that guy who had a bubble butt pass by our table countless times. A sight for my sore eye.

Menus often mislead. Often times, it will look like you’ll be served with a platter good for five hungry mouths when it will only serve three. And what’s with the cabbage leaf with a quarter of an olive?

Popcorn is a jawbreaker. You won’t notice it while you’re chewing, but after some time, your jaw will hurt.

Dirty old men still exist. And I mean dirty old straight men.

There were these four guys on the other table about in their early forties who kept harassing a waitress for her number. One even put his hand on the girl’s shoulder. It would have been an innocent act if his hand didn’t run down to her arms. Their next round of beer was served by a different waitress.

Guys who wear wife beaters gross me out.

It’s bad enough that you’re wearing it on a cold night and when you’re out with your friends, but to pair it with Bermuda shorts? Where did you think you were going—the beach?

Expectations lead to disappointment, most of the time.

But it’s tricky, because as much as you don’t want to expect, you’re only human—you expect.

If your driver’s license has expired for over a year, you have to go through the whole trouble (no, it’s not a process) of getting a license over again. The torture.

Like misery, heartache loves company. And alcohol.

Your friends will always find a way to remind you of the things you can’t have.

Wearing shorts when drinking is way, way more comfortable than wearing jeans.

Sometimes, all we need is a friend who’ll listen. Never mind the occasional mockery.

Touch phones aren’t for bloggers.

You should never take suggestions for suicide seriously. Especially not from friends.

You move on from pain one step at a time. Nobody’s ever done it in one giant leap.

And, "There's a point in life when you get tired of chasing everyone and trying to fix everything, but it's not giving up. It's realizing that you don't need certain people and their crap—" this I remembered last night as I was chugging down shots of Kamikaze. Today, I woke up to a new albeit seemingly familiar reality. I've had just about enough; I choose to surround myself with people who want me in their lives.

At midnight, we called it a night and headed home. I didn’t want to go home just yet. But I went home anyway, feeling really good.

Who wouldn’t feel good, anyway? I had a great time with friends, and although I practically drank on an empty stomach—because a cereal drink, a Fudgee Bar, two slices of bread, and a portion of leftover eggplant pancake from breakfast doesn’t make for a dinner—I came home walking as steady as a rock.

Assuming my calculation is correct, I’ve consumed a bottle of beer and about a litre of Kamikaze —so yes, it’s a bit surprising that I am completely sober. My mental and motor faculties don’t have the slightest dent on them. I even played a prank on my sister and cousin who were watching TV when I got home; they got scared they ran to the room.

Friday, June 10, 2011

1. In 2008, I underwent a minor medical procedure called bilateral ungiectomy which had my two big toe-nails clipped. I had five shots of anaesthesia on each toe, and it was the most excruciating thing I’d ever felt. My nails had to be clipped on the sides because of an infection I got from a pedicure session.

2. I don’t know how to play any card game—except maybe for unggoy-unggoy, which doesn’t really count because even toddlers play it. I tried to learn, but playing cards just isn’t my kind of thing; I couldn’t learn even if my life depended on it. So at certain gatherings, when everyone else seems to be engrossed in whatever card game it is they’re playing, I play on my mobile or take pictures of people playing.

3. My tummy acts up when I take a shower in the morning without having drank coffee or eaten something. It also acts up when I’m completely stressed out.

4. I don’t believe in ‘love at first sight’, but I believe in ‘love at first taste’. I’ve fallen madly, madly in-love with Korean food the first time I tried it—kimchi, bibimbap, and bulgogi.

5. Zombie films fascinate me. One of my all-time favourite films is The Night of the Living Dead (1969). And I think that fascination is wired around my liking for eerie stuff—haunted houses, ghost stories, cemeteries—and my devouring horror comics when I was younger. And I like brownouts.

6. I like the smell of old books, green tea, freshly-cut grass.

7. When I get riled up, I eat like a horse. Sometimes I make my own food. When I’m riled up or upset enough, I make pasta, egg salad, fried rice, vegetable salad.

8. I started smoking when I was in fourth year college. I shared my first stick with Melanie. And no, I am not addicted to smoking. It appears I don’t have an addictive personality. I only smoke over coffee and alcohol, anyway.

9. I pick fights with tricycle driver in our city. OK, more like, I yell at them for being such assholes; they yell back, I yell again even louder.

10. I am a January reader—I rarely finish reading a book. I can only count with my fingers the number of books I actually finished reading. I’m more of a blog, select articles in magazines and newspapers kind of guy.

11. I can use gadgets without reading manuals or prior knowledge of how they work, which maybe the reason why I get really annoyed when people don’t know how to use gadgets. I go thinking, ‘Gawd. Common sense.’

12. I judge people based partly on their Facebook status, Facebook photo album titles, favourite TV shows, and music playlist.

13. I Google. But my browser’s home page is set to Yahoo! simply because there’s no Today Feed on Google.

14. I like babies—they’re cute and they smell good. After they get a full set of teeth, however, they start to annoy me. And that’s when I like to make them cry.

15. I seem to be drawn to assholes—some grand, some irrelevant—most of the time. It’s a curse, really.

16. Talk to me about sports and chances are I’ll put you on a mental blacklist of people to avoid a conversation with.

17. I will get a tattoo, or three, one day.

18. I don’t say it’s OK when it’s not OK.

19. When traveling, I like to pack the night before I leave. I find it fun that way.

20. I put my toothbrush in the freezer. That way, the bristles always feel like they’re new.

21. One form of payback that I like is hiding the offender’s belongings—mobile phone, especially, since apparently people can’t seem to live without their phone. And I’m good at payback.

22. I am an audiophile, in a sense—I am very particular with the ‘equalizer’ part of audio players. I notice the slightest change in bass or treble. And I check the specifications before buying speakers or earphones. Especially earphones.

23. I can get really, really drunk and sleep late, and still wake up early if I had a mental note of a certain commitment the next morning.

24. I write out of need to express myself, stay sane, and keep myself from imploding. And sometimes, out of need to write, I drink so that whatever pent-up emotion or thought I need to let out, well, comes out.

25. In 2006, I jumped off a dam in Mindanao with my cousins. We did it not once, not twice. But four freaking times. It was one of the most liberating experiences in my existence. I liked it a lot that if it weren’t for the lack of time, I’d have done it until evening.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

So it’s true, Juanito is good with his hands. If it weren’t for his chattiness, I’d have completely dozed off while he massaged my back—‘popping’ some sort of air mass between my muscles, supposedly causing a recurring cough.

He frequently asked if I was feeling the ‘masses’ that he was trying to pop. Each time I thought I was going to fall asleep, he asks the question. And after times of almost falling asleep, I gave up trying and just half-listened to stories about his experience in hilot, about boxing and other things that didn’t really interest me.

After the hilot, I immediately went to my room and listened to Rachael Yamagata sing me to sleep. Oddly but wonderfully, as I was starting to fall into slumber, Rachael Yamagata’s songs reminded me of how it felt like when I was in college. Back when things were simpler and emotions weren’t as pounding as they are now.

I woke up with a stuffy nose and a headache. My nose was so stuffy that I had to breathe through my mouth. Seriously, I don’t get it—my room sometimes gets so cold that I have to wrap myself in thick comforters and still wake up with a stuffy nose, sometimes it gets really hot that I have to turn the AC up really high.

It has been a while since I had freshly brewed coffee, because I had been so lazy about making coffee that I’ve reduced caffeine satisfaction to 3-in-1 sachets of coffee mix. So after I dealt with my morning grumpiness, I brewed two cups of coffee, which I drank in under 3 minutes. It’s not records breaking, I know. But I’ve started drinking a lot of coffee again, which isn’t a bad thing because I’ve read in Reader’s Digest that men who drink at least six cups of coffee a day are less likely to have prostate cancer. So, yes, I guess I am drinking for my balls.

While I had breakfast, my dad was being massaged by a man in the living room. Well, technically, it’s called hilot. The manghihilot (the practitioner) whose name is Juanito had to travel around two hours because my parents had specifically asked him to. He’s quite known in my mother’s hometown for his good skill in hilot. And later, I shall experience first-hand just how good he is. I just hope he tones down his chattiness a notch because, for me, massages are supposed to be accompanied with silence. So no, I don’t want to hear about furniture, life at a farm, fishing as a hobby, life as a married man, how to smoke without getting addicted (because I already know that), and the harmful effects of drinking too much.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Everything must come to an end. Thankfully, such is the case of that darned teleserye Mara Clara, the remake of the nineties teleserye that ran for a ridiculously long five years. Five freaking years—but it seemed longer then. And although the remake only ran for seven months, give or take, it still seemed too long a teleserye.

I was never a fan. Although I have watched some episodes either because the entire household found it reasonable to waste good half an hour of primetime on watching a show with a rather convoluted, ridiculous plot; or I’ve previously seen a promo of an episode and decided to watch because watching the protagonist bitch-slap the antagonist, not one but at least ten times, would prove vicariously fulfilling.

So, while I was on YM with friends, I excused myself for not replying to the chat because I was watching Mara Clara. One just can’t help but watch a show conclude, especially when it should’ve concluded months ago. The whole series would have only taken two weeks to end, had the writers not been so hell-bent on adding their so-called ‘twist’, which, when you think about it, was just twisted.

So how did it end? Like all the other teleseryes—a villain dead, the protagonist finally leading a happy life. Gawd. It was so unoriginal—which was primarily true since it was a remake after all—I wanted to choke myself for watching. Putting the fact that it was a primetime show—therefore things should not be too violent or gory because kids would be watching—that Gary character shouldn’t have died so easily, and almost painlessly, if I may note. It would have been a good ending if Gary had suffered minor injuries before he died; all the other characters he’s offended could have at least tortured him, in any way, before finally killing him. And it would have been a better ending if Clara didn’t get admitted to a mental institution but was pushed off the ledge by Mara; or if Clara, out of conscience, just decided to light herself up in flames. And it would have been an even better ending if Gary died and turned into a zombie to once again make Mara’s life miserable.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

This morning, someone called me a pathetic loser. In the evening, my dad made me think about seriously engaging in exercise; no, I don’t want to join the next season of The Biggest Loser.

As with the first loser part, I don’t want to make a deal out of it because, hey, at some point in our lives, we’ve all been called losers—sometimes in our pretty faces; most of the time, behind our back. And getting riled up about it would only justify the word.

The second loser part was a bit—how do I put it—alarming. I was on my third spicy fried chicken at KFC when my dad asked if I had any friend who was into lawn tennis. I said no, and that the only person I know who’s into lawn tennis now resides in Canada. I should have seen the query on such a form of what he called “really good exercise” coming; at breakfast, he said that I should start doing some jogging because I was “getting big,” which was not completely true since I’ve actually shed off inches from my waistline in a matter of weeks since he arrived for vacation.

I wanted the last piece of fried chicken in the bucket, but I fought the craving off with coleslaw. Freaking coleslaw. Didn’t want to put any more spotlight on me, you know. But before leaving, I ordered two KFC Twisters for take out for myself.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

The rain had just stopped—this is evident through the drops of water that trickle off the leaves, and the faint breeze that smelled of rain. The rays of the sun made its way through the gaps of leaves and branches, almost like lending little beam lights on the wet ground.

I continued to drive through the narrow road that seemed to be sheltered by towering trees. Birds chirped and butterflies fluttered from a distant shrub. It was the kind of place one would want to be in in solitary. I was told the forest leads to a secluded beach.

I drove through the morning until I reached what seemed to be the end of the trail of the forest. The transition of scenery was abrupt. I pulled over upon reaching a pebbled pathway. On the side of the road were parked cars, some shinny while others dusty. I asked a man for directions, asking where the resort I had been booked in was. It was not far enough, I was told. But I had to leave the car on the side of the road like the others.

I walked a good distance before reaching the beach area. The water was pristine; it sparkled like diamonds from where I stood. After a few turns at corners, I saw a wooden signage that had “Mer” scrawled artistically on it, with a seahorse engraved on the side.

After a good couple of hours swimming, I headed back to the resort. Then as soon as I entered the lobby, everything got really dark. I looked out the huge window and the sky had suddenly turned velvet. Dark clouds loomed in over the sea. I asked the receptionist what was happening , and he replied in a calm voice that it was only normal; that vampires and wolves, and other beastly creatures roamed the place. And that it was better that I stayed inside. “The shore’s empty now, everyone had gone back to their resorts,” he pointed out the window where the beach front was clearly visible.

Rubbish, I thought. But I started to be frightened when I looked down at my watch and read 4.27. I brushed what I heard off and had some grilled prawns for snacks at the resort’s almost empty dining area. There were only a few other guests having snacks and coffee. I tried to fight off the faint fear that started crawling on my skin. But even before I could finish my food, a piercing scream echoed. It startled everyone, except for the resort’s employees. Along with other guests, I ran to the window and tried to see through the darkness what was happening. The scream was heard again, this time followed by a cry. I exchanged questions with other guests. One said he only came to the place to prove that those beastly creatures he had heard of truly existed.

I got shit-scared that I ran to my room and grabbed my stuff. Others did as well. Then I trailed off after some of the resort’s guests, and other resorts’ guest as well, outside. Screams were deafening. My heart pounded when a winged creature swept past my and grabbed the person just a few steps away. Shit.

But before I could collapse from panic attack, I opened my eyes and found myself inside my very own room. It was half past 7 in the morning. And I had never been so relieved to see the ugly chapped paint on the wall.

It was just a dream, alright. A bad dream. But sometimes, we wake up from a bad dream only to find that reality is even worse.—my dog is sick and needs to be brought to the vet, I still have no idea where to get a job, my allergy recurs, the one person I badly need to talk to is continents away, my stomach’s acting up, my hair still refuses to obey my fingers, the air is polluted, a friend went behind my back and tried to wash her hands clean of it, the president is still smiling through his responsibilities, Showtime is still on TV.